Experiments in Warmth
by Kelouisa
Summary: Just a few short fluffy scenes in my Johnlocky little head... not necessarily following each other directly, but generally chronological.
1. Chapter 1

John took at least seventeen minutes in the bathroom in the morning to get ready for work, between showering, shaving, brushing his teeth. That gave Sherlock two minutes to make sure his flat mate was semi-permanently enclosed in the room, one minute to remake the bed after, one minute to rearrange himself downstairs in an innocent pose, and thirteen minutes in the middle to curl up in the warm spot in John's bed.

Sometimes he spread out, deducing John's sleeping position by the limits of the warmth on the on the bottom sheet. Other days he just curled up and let the man's warmth seep into him.

If John ever noticed that his bed wasn't made with quite the same military precision as before he went to shower, or if he noticed a stray dark hair on his pillowcase, he never said. He might see, but he never observed.

Sherlock tried waiting once until John left for work before invading his bed so he might luxuriate the whole day, but John took too long and the bed was cold by the time he got there. Instead, he spent an hour imagining John sharing the pillow, his face and warm breath so close. It wasn't difficult. John's scent, clean soap, wool, and a warm, woodsy smell when he lit their fireplace, lingered on the pillow and scent was a very strong memory aid.

One morning, John left for the bathroom and Sherlock counted out the two minutes in his head. The shower turned on and Sherlock leapt up the stairs on cat feet. He'd no sooner pulled the covers back than someone cleared his throat.

John cleared his throat.

Directly behind him.

"May I ask what you're doing in my room?" His tone was full of good humor and capped with a small amount of exasperation.

"Laundry, John," Sherlock lied. "I need to see the effects of bleach on common cotton sheets."

"No. Use your own sheets. I won't have you ruining mine."

"But mine are 1600 threat count…"

"No, Sherlock," John said more firmly.

Sherlock made a show of tossing the edge of the blanket back over the side of the bed and made no fuss to ensure it was tidy.

"Oh, very well, John. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson for one I can use for my experiment." He swanned out the door with no little relief that John believed him.

Then, after a long case where John hadn't worked at the clinic much and Sherlock hadn't time to sleep or eat for days, much less steal into John's bed for his thirteen minutes of comfort, Sherlock paced in the sitting room, unable to quiet himself. John had admonished him to go to bed, though he had retreated to his own with the belief he'd wake to Sherlock sprawled, passed out on the sofa or possibly the floor. Sherlock could feel his transport begging for sleep – the feeling gnawed at him, clutched at his eyelids and shorted out his brain. He thought about fighting it longer, just to prove his will was in control, not his body.

But there was another sensation in his body, one he couldn't quite identify. He'd felt it before. When? It took an improbably long moment for Sherlock to place it. Right. He felt it just before sneaking into John's bed. The need for warmth. Cold, he was cold!

Sherlock leapt up the stairs two at a time, rapped twice before opening John's door. John raised his head blearily from his pillow.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I'm cold, John," Sherlock announced with no small amount of pride in his discovery. "Budge over."

John was too tired to argue and if this was what it took to let Sherlock settle, to let him sleep, to let _John_ sleep, then so be it. The second he shifted to a cool section of the mattress, Sherlock's gangly limbs were tucked into the warm spot.

"Oh, yes, perfect," Sherlock sighed and laid his head on the pillow with its warm indent from John's tousled head. John fussed with the covers, tucking them about Sherlock's neck. Then he settled in, head bent close to Sherlock's as the detective had appropriated his only pillow. They had to share unless John wanted to crawl out of his warm comfortable bed for another one.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke in the gray morning hours before the sun had decided whether or not it was going to shine that day. They'd gone to bed the afternoon before, after the case had kept them awake far too long, and he supposed he'd gotten enough sleep by now. But he was so warm, so comfortable, he didn't really want to move.

The fact that it was Sherlock's arm draped over his waist and Sherlock scooped up along his back and Sherlock's breath warm on the back of his neck didn't quite register at first. And when it did enter John's brain, it only merited an, _"Oh, okay, then,"_ perhaps due to residual sleepiness or the gradual wearing down of his definition of personal space.

John just enjoyed the utter peace of it all for a few minutes.

"John, turn over." Sherlock's voice was low and quiet, without the sibilance of a whisper.

"Why? Do you want to be the little spoon for a while?"

The only response from Sherlock was a small huff of air, and John lifted the covers a little and twisted around to face Sherlock. They weren't as closely pressed as they had been; their bodies couldn't quite conform to each other as well face-to-face, but Sherlock's arm resettled around his waist.

John could just make out the planes of Sherlock's face in the dim morning light, the jaw where scruff somewhat more auburn than the hair on his head was coming in. His eyes glittered, still as sharp and soul-piercing even shrouded in the gray dawn shadows.

Sherlock's warm breath puffed out over John's lips, making them tingle despite the slightly unpleasant smell. A lover's morning breath never really bothered John; it was intimate, personal, close. Even if Sherlock was not his lover, it was okay.

And then those eyes were flickering over his face, and the hand that rested on John's waist slid up and cupped over the side of his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. And those lips, those sharply-drawn, soft, perfect lips touched his own lips with a tentative gentleness that surprised John. He'd always thought if Sherlock was driven to kiss him, it would be an act of adrenaline, or an act entirely, not tenderness.

John returned the kiss, holding himself still and relaxed as if Sherlock was a wild creature that would be easily startled. Their lips brushed together softly, repeatedly, breath mingling warmly. John felt cocooned, as if there were only the two of them.

Sherlock kissed him not as one unfamiliar with the gesture, but as one uncertain as to how it would be received. Sherlock's fingers hovered over the pulse point in his neck.

"Sherlock, is this some sort of experiment?" John broke away from Sherlock's soft lips. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but he couldn't let himself do this if… _if it wasn't real, if it was all a trick, a game, if Sherlock didn't understand that feelings were involved, not just warmth and endorphins._

"Of course it is."

"Of course it is," John repeated with a sigh, pulling back. "I thought I told you not to experiment on me anymore."

"I can't do this experiment with anyone else, John."

"I wouldn't recommend that, no."

"I mean, I _can't_, John. _You_ are the important variable here. I'm trying to see whether the emotion of love has a significant effect on the arousal response."

"And... and does it?"

"Need more data."


	3. Chapter 3

The elegant grounds were getting trampled by the constables and medical personnel and restless wedding guests. The staff hired for the wedding day were unsure what to do, so they improvised, circling the crowds with refreshments meant for the curtailed celebration. Beverages, excepting champagne, were offered to elegantly-dressed guests and policemen alike. The groundskeeper had long since given up trying to save his immaculate lawn and hovered in front of a terrace of rose bushes, scowling.

Lestrade was scowling too. His presence had been requested at the estate to form a bridge between Sherlock and the local constabulary. He could argue that the estate was far from his jurisdiction, but he had no defense against being known as Sherlock's handler. Still, he didn't think it was his division to smooth the ruffled feathers of other detective inspectors when the famous consulting detective was called in. That was John's job. John was kind and patient and soothing. Lestrade was jonesing for a cigarette.

The bride's father, one Mr. Ewold Gateman and owner of a fine estate just north of London, had insisted on Sherlock Holmes, even if his presence merited more than the usual media attention. Mr. Gateman had enough wealth and influence to insist upon a hasty resolution. Upon receiving many calls nearly at once, John had, in a moment of brilliance, coerced a ridiculous fee from Gateman in return for what Sherlock had dismissed as, "A three. Barely," when he had gotten the initial details from Lestrade. In the end, though, Sherlock hadn't been too terribly difficult to convince. John merely had to state that with the money they'd receive, he wouldn't have to take as many shifts at the surgery for a while.

Sherlock had huffed and agreed like he was doing John the world's biggest favor. John smiled indulgently in return and hastened the detective out the door.

When they arrived in the middle of the sumptuous grounds flooded with members of the local constabulary, several adjacent ones, and over three hundred potential witnesses and suspects, Sherlock perked up. The constables had separated the large group as much as possible into guests, wedding party, house staff and temporary staff. They were painstakingly interviewing each, but that would take hours.

The dead man was the groom. He'd never descended in the morning to take his place at the head of the aisle to await his bride. He'd been found by an angry almost-father-in-law in the office/library, which had been locked the night before against wandering guests. Sherlock examined the doors and windows with interest before setting eyes on the body.

The bride was hysterical in the nearby drawing room that opened to the grounds where the ceremony had been set up. She was surrounded by a flotilla of stunning bridesmaids all in clouds of pink taffeta. They fluttered about, bringing her water and tissues; one enterprising young lady had even snagged a bottle of scotch from the bar. She waggled the bottle at John and Lestrade in invitation as she sauntered past them in the hall. Lestrade tapped his warrant card with a wry grin and John just stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away with a smile and shrug.

"John, all those bridesmaids," Lestrade muttered with some longing. "I would have thought you to be off flirting while the Great One works. The bird with the scotch looked keen."

"No drinking on the job, Lestrade," John answered, even though they had been relegated to the wide hall with everyone else by Sherlock's blunt declaration that he needed to think and that everyone was distracting him.

"Don't have to drink it."

"Go on yourself, then. I'd rather wait 'til Sherlock figures it out. With my luck, I'd hit on the murderer."

"He was strangled, John. It's a tough thing to do. You know as well as I that it was probably a man. I think you're safe."

"Still."

Lestrade chuckled.

John and Lestrade peered in at Sherlock through the slightly open door, careful not to draw attention to themselves and distract the detective. Sherlock was still crouched by the body, apparently fascinated by the groom's face. The man had marks – not cuts from shaving, nor in a manner consistent with razor burn. Sherlock leapt up and began to pace, fingers to his lips. Suddenly Sherlock lit up. He bounded from the library, past John and Lestrade in the hall, and into the drawing room.

"A mirror! Preferably one with magnifying properties." The bride and bridesmaids, select family members, and several constables blinked in surprise.

A model-esque bridesmaid pulled a compact from a ruffled drawstring purse dangling from her wrist.

"Excellent!" The detective missed how she flirtatiously held it out, withdrew it slightly to draw him closer before allowing him to snap it from her fingers.

"John, I need you!"

"Duty calls." Lestrade chuckled.

"What do you need me to do, Sherlock?" John ducked into the drawing room. Sherlock whirled about. Clearly he was onto a scent of sorts. It was only a matter of minutes before some great reveal and that garnered the attention of everyone in the room, as well as those near the French doors opened to the garden beyond.

"Kiss me!" And Sherlock's lips covered John's so impulsively, John had little time to react.

After a bit of a shocked delay, camera shutters snapped as even the forensic team enterprisingly filled their memory cards with the sight. The shots from certain cell phones were online before the kiss had even ended. The sight would be commented on, dissected, glorified, hated, and dismissed as clever Photoshop a million times over by the end of the night.

It was a stunning kiss, from any angle. John grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket in response to the detective's exuberance, sure, but it was clear as the kiss progressed, the blogger was giving as good as he got. This was no unexpected first kiss that bowled over an unsuspecting friend, nor a simple experiment for the sake of a case.

Lestrade groaned at a crowing text from Donovan about winning the office pool just as Sherlock pulled back.

John cleared his throat, flushing bright red as he realized they'd been snogging so enthusiastically in the midst of curious, tech-savvy onlookers. "Was that display really necessary, Sherlock?"

But John didn't look perturbed. He had a slightly goofy grin on his face as if Sherlock kissed him stupid every day and six times on Sunday. Sherlock ignored him, examining the skin of his chin and around his lips in the mirror.

"Whisker burn!" he finally announced. "Find and arrest the best man, Lestrade!"

"The best man?" Lestrade sputtered. "Why..?"

Sherlock spouted out his deductions without a moment's hesitation for his normal scathing derision.

"The groom had spent the night before the wedding, as is usually done, with his best man and various other mates. After a late night, the best man was entrusted with seeing the groom back to his rooms at the estate. Clearly, he confessed his romantic feelings – and those feelings were returned as evidenced by the significant amount of whisker burn on the groom's face. But when he said this morning that he was going through with the wedding anyway – he is already wearing his tuxedo – the best man killed him. Simple crime of passion."

"Well done, Sherlock," John said, bussing the taller man on the lips and quite cutting off the contemptuous, "Dull," that would have otherwise emerged.

The bride burst out into a fresh hail of tears and sobs.

"Oh, do not carry on so," Sherlock said, moving to where John could not stop him. "He is not worth your grief. He was only marrying you for your money."

"And, I think it's time for us to be going." John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's jacket and pulled him towards the door. "Good day, Lestrade."

"Well, that explains the bridesmaids," Lestrade muttered to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Actually, I had another idea besides this one for this series, but I wanted to do a little something extra before that bit. Not sure when that will be written or posted, but I had this for the meantime. :) Enjoy :)**

The day started off with a sudden epiphany from Sherlock which evolved into an invigorating chase. They split up near the end, with John sneaking around the back while Sherlock thrust himself in the suspect's path. John tackled the thug from behind and used his own length of copper pipe against him in a chokehold. Sherlock texted Lestrade one-handed while congratulating John on his outstanding use of brute force. Once his phone slipped back into his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest in a way he hoped looked natural.

The attempt was unsuccessful.

John didn't say anything until their suspect had been properly cuffed and installed in the back of a panda car. Perhaps he had noticed Sherlock's arms were less crossed and more cradled, or that Sherlock was not accompanying his deductions with his usual vigorous gestures.

"Did you take a blow to the arm from that pipe, Sherlock?" John interrupted. Sherlock glared in John's direction and Lestrade blinked and stepped back.

"I'm fine. It's just a deep bruise."

"It's a deep bruise when the x-ray says it's a deep bruise. A&E, now." John used his army captain voice as much now as he did in the army, it seemed. Sherlock knew it was useless to argue.

Several hours and five angry medical professionals later (not counting John), the pair were ensconced back home at Baker Street, where Sherlock tipped his coat off his shoulders and onto the floor. John picked it up and hung it before taking off his own and making tea without a word. Sherlock flopped into his chair with a pained grimace.

"Bored, John. Cluedo?"

"Neither of us is fit enough for another game of Cluedo," John answered drily from the kitchen. "Besides you've just solved a case. I haven't even thought of a blog title for it, so you can't be bored already."

"Hospital was tedious."

"I know, but you've fractured your ulna. You were lucky not to need surgery to reset the bone or clean out fragments."

Sherlock hmphed at that and sulked while John gently maneuvered a pillow under Sherlock's temporary cast.

"Comfy?"

"No. Bring me my violin. And tea. And those chocolate Hob-Nobs I know you've hidden away behind the kitchen towels."

John fetched everything without complaint before settling in his own chair across from Sherlock's.

"No safety lecture?"

"Do you want to hear it?"

"No." Sherlock did not like to be told that he'd been careless or reckless or ought to have told John the plan or waited, but John's silence on the matter was disconcerting. Then again, he never could fathom the man. He'd surprised him in so many ways already.

"Well, then."

Sherlock drank his tea but only managed one and a half biscuits before he began to randomly pluck at the strings of his violin, which he had hugged to his chest with his good arm as if it was a teddy bear. In a sudden motion, he jumped up, propped his violin in his seat, and sat on the sofa. A moment later, he'd stretched out on his back, rolling to his side shortly after. An irritated groan followed this last movement.

"My arm hurts, John."

"I know, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but I can't give you anything stronger than ibuprofen. I'm sure in a couple of days you'll be banging around the kitchen knocking over beakers because you've forgotten to account for your cast."

Sherlock grunted in offense.

"You could try and sleep a little. It will be better for you if you rest."

"I can't rest, John! I can't get comfortable at all."

"Okay. Okay. How about this: pajamas, Chinese delivery, and a DVD?"

"I hate telly, John," Sherlock grumped.

"We've a series of Inspector Lewis we haven't watched yet. You could try to beat your record."

Sherlock was torn. He did like to watch mysteries and announce the killer as early as possible. When John was feeling indulgent, he'd allow Sherlock to skip ahead the moment he'd made his pronouncement and see if he was right. His current record was reducing over four hours to a mere twenty-three minutes.

"Very well."

"Do you need help changing your clothes?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped, heading to his room. A few moments later, he wished he hadn't been so hasty. He had to find a scissors so he could remove his cast from the remains of his tight-fitting shirt; they'd only sliced open the sleeve at the hospital, leaving him a decent amount of shirt to cover himself. The trousers were easier to remove one-handed, but he did so enjoy John's hands on his fly even when John was being polite and professional. He returned a few minutes later, just as John hung up the phone, dressing gown only half-on because just pulling on the tee-shirt over his cast had been horrible. John didn't say anything about the dangling sleeve or the untied drawstring of his pajama trousers.

John went to change out of his jeans. When he returned, he was wearing pajama bottoms and a vest and a soft jumper Sherlock had bought him last Christmas instead of his terry robe. He also had brought down a duvet and pillows. Sherlock had been trying to make himself comfortable on the sofa with various sprawled positions and their floppy Union Jack pillow, but was having no luck.

"You can lean against me. That should help."

Sherlock gave a doubtful grunt in reply.

John sat on the sofa, a little slumped with his sock feet up on the coffee table. Sherlock examined him and the pillows and sat leaning back against John's shoulder. "No." He stood. Sherlock tried again, lying down on the sofa with his head on John's lap and his arm propped on a pillow.

"Insufferable." Every position seemed to make his arm throb more intolerably.

After ten minutes of frustration and worsening discomfort, Sherlock found his position. He sprawled his top half across a combination of John's chest, lap, and a pillow, his knees against the back of the sofa. The Union Jack pillow rested on John's shoulder with Sherlock's temporary cast propped atop it. With his arm well above his heart, the throbbing eased somewhat.

"You won't be able to see the television."

"Don't care," Sherlock mumbled where his face was pressed into the soft weave of John's sweater. "Will solve crime by ear." He had no real intention now of watching television. His attention was much better occupied by examining the fibers of John's soft jumper at close range, smelling their smell and the faded remains of John's aftershave and feeling the warmth of John's chest against his cheek.

"Okay." John started the first DVD with the remote, tugging the duvet over as much of them as he could without displacing Sherlock. John shifted just a little bit more to make himself comfortable, curling one arm around Sherlock's ribs.

It was most pleasant. Sherlock listened to John's steady heartbeat, shutting out the voices from the television. John's warmth enveloped him, flowed through him. John's free hand stroked through Sherlock's curls, each fingertip creating a pleasant tingle in Sherlock's scalp. For a brief second Sherlock even considered that he might not ever move from this spot, before realism and reason reared their ugly heads.

Mrs. Hudson found them like that an hour later when she came up the steps to scold them for ignoring the delivery boy ringing the bell. The reminder that she was not their housekeeper lost most of its snap when she took in Sherlock's cast and his opulent sprawl over John's person.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was sleeping and I didn't want to disturb him."

"Oh, as long as you don't make this a habit, it's fine this time. I'll just put this in the fridge for later, then, shall I?"

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson. Couldn't ask for a better landlady than you."

"Oh, my boys." She couldn't help but smile indulgently and leave them to their cuddle.


End file.
